A Face on Display
by The Mad Old THAImer
Summary: Short, dark piece. Raoul, Christine, and their son Philippe stumble into a museum, where they are greeted with a familiar face...
1. Part I

**Part I**

"Look! Mama, that face is so weird!" the little child pointed at the disembodied head suspended in the jar. "Who could ever live with such a face like that?!"

"Why, Philippe, that is the head of the supposed Phantom of the Opera," she replied. The tiny placard, written in English, contained just a few simple words.

 _This here is the head of the feared Phantom of the Opera, in truth the head of a nameless stranger who committed acts of violence and bestowed terror upon the Opera Populaire from 1870 to 1880. He was executed in 1881 by guillotine, and his head was given to this museum by the Surete of Paris._

"This certainly brings back memories, does it Christine?" Raoul placed his hand on Christine's shoulder lovingly. "Thank goodness that the monster is dead, thank goodness he no longer haunts us."

"What do you mean by that, papa?" Philippe turned his head around to face Raoul. "Did this monster play a part of you and mama's lives?"

Christine's face darkened. "Of course it did. It bewitched me with its luring voice. It was a siren at its greatest power. It destroyed the chandelier at the opera house and caused thousands of francs of damage. It killed men without thought. It tried to make me its wife." She turned back to Raoul, eyes shining. "Thank goodness your father was there to save me."

Raoul smiled. "It was nothing, dear. He was no match against me, of all people."

"Oh, Raoul, it was certainly a match against you. You came back so bruised and cut up. It blackened both of your eyes…"

Philippe turned back to the head. It was barren of any hair, and its face looked as if someone had taken a knife and carved large amounts of flesh from it, revealing mostly bone and several remaining amounts of muscle. There was no nose, but rather a gaping socket where the nose was supposed to be. The lips were nonexistent. The blue eyes rested deep in the eye sockets and its teeth was permanently locked in a snarl.

"Mama, what did you mean by, 'saved me'?"

"Why, ma cherie, I was kidnapped by that monster. It wanted me to love it for who it was. Me? Love it?" Her face showed evident signs of disgust. "Why in the world would I love a face like that? It wanted me imprisoned, to be its little songbird forever."

"You're still a singer now," Philippe pointed out.

"Why, that's because your father let me!" She once again looked at him affectionately. "Normally, I, a young chorus dancer-turned diva would not have been able to sing after marrying into nobility, but your father fought tooth-and-nail with your grandfather to let me continue my career."

"That was nothing, dear. Your voice deserves more than to be trained for nothing. You sing so beautifully. Like an angel."

She looked at the head again and shivered. "Let's get out of here, Raoul. That head is making me nauseous."

"What? But mama…"

"Listen to your mother, Philippe. I think we've seen enough of this museum anyway." Raoul looked away from the head uncomfortably. "I am feeling a little queasy myself…"

"Aww, please, papa?" Philippe's eyes pleaded.

"No. That is final. Come, Philippe, we leave now."

"But papa…"

"NOW."


	2. Part II

**Part II**

 _Several Years Earlier…_

"For goodness sake," the Phantom muttered. "How did that meddlesome Persian and the fop make their way down here?" A faint jingle of a bell could be heard in the room. He wiped his exposed forehead and turned to Christine, who was still trembling before him. "Well, my dear, it seems we have company, now don't we?"

He traced Christine's chin with a gloved finger, and she resisted the urge to just bite him. He might just snap, and not in a good way.

"Why don't you stay here, my dear, while I take care of the intruders?"

Without waiting for Christine's response, the Phantom left the room-no, vanished was more accurate- leaving her alone before the two caskets. The scorpion and the grasshopper were just waiting to be turned.

"What… what are you doing to me?"

A scream echoed throughout the caverns, and Christine covered her mouth to stop her from crying out. _Raoul! That's what it meant by fop!_

More screams followed. It was maddening, for she knew no way out of the room. She did not know how many days or nights passed since the first scream was heard. She lost track of time, silently picking at a dish of cheeses next to the caskets. Now that he wasn't here breathing on her back, she could slowly take it all in. All that happened.

Unfortunately she no longer heard what other cries were going on. And thus, she sat in silence, pondering on all that happened up to this point. Was Raoul safe? Has her deranged angel-turned-devil been defeated?

And suddenly, Raoul appeared. His blonde hair was severely disheveled, his entire body was drenched wet with water and blood; his face in particular was bloody and bruised, with many cuts around his face and eye sockets. But his smile displayed nothing but triumph.

"I did it Christine! I beat the monster once and for all!"

"You…" she approached his stooped figure cautiously. "You have defeated him?"

"I have surrendered him to the Surete, little Lotte! We are free at last!"

"Oh Raoul!" She kissed him fervently, which he returned with equal passion. "I love you so much!"

"And I too, Christine." He took a step back. "Why, Christine! You are about as skinny as a skeleton! What has he done to you?"

"It didn't do much," Christine mumbled. "I'm fine, really." In truth she was feeling very light-headed. "It did leave some cheese right there. But not much. I suppose I am just very hungry."

"Oh, my dear, I am so sorry for all you've been through!" Raoul scooped her up in his surprisingly still-strong arms. She noticed that, despite being drenched wet, Raoul failed to roll up his sleeves. "Come, let us go back up to the opera house. You need food and a new set of clothes."

"We both do," Christine giggled. "You don't smell very nice yourself."

"Then it is settled, Christine. Let us go!" He began walking straight into a hallway that Christine did not notice was there before.

"But Raoul, do you know the way out?" she protested. We'll be lost-"

"Don't worry." His eyes shone like a lantern in the darkness. "I know the way."

 _Christine… Christine…_ Another voice echoed from the depths of the cavern, pleading for attention. But Christine didn't care. Who she chose was final.


	3. Part III

**Part III**

"I'm not the Phantom! He is!" The monster pointed its shaky finger at Raoul, who was hugging Christine close to his chest so that she did not see what was happening. "He is, _he is,_ **HE IS**!" It had been a week since Christine and Raoul escaped the Phantom's lair, and they were there to witness the execution of the Phantom of the Opera. "He is, he is, he-"

"Stop babbling nonsense," Raoul snapped at the monster. The Phantom cowered back at the order in fear. "Just accept your fate already." He turned to the Gendarmerie who were holding onto the monster's chains. "Clearly he has lost whatever mind he had before. I suspect it was when I knocked him out with the hilt of my sword. Let him see Madame Guillotine and end his suffering once and for all."

"Sir, are you sure that this man murdered Nadir Khan though?" One of the officers looked at the Phantom with slight concern. "With the exception of Khan, we have no physical proof that he has actually committed any crime, and thus should theoretically walk away scot-free. If anything, he should see a psychiatrist."

" _He_? The _Phantom of the Opera?_ " he scoffed. "Just his face alone is enough to warrant an execution. I saw him murder that Persian with my own eyes! You have my word as a nobleman that he murdered the Persian, kidnapped my fiancee, and wanted to set fire to all of the Opera Populaire. I highly doubt _any_ physician would like him as a patient."

"My fiancee! _My fiancee_!" the monster groaned.

"Please... Just die already," Christine breathed. She turned to face her former mentor, her kidnapper, her… Achilles heel. "I don't need you in my life anymore, Erik."

"Chris-"

"Stop, Erik. I do not know you. You murdered Buquet, you blackmailed the managers, you terrorized the entire opera house, you betrayed me. I do not, and I will not, need you anymore."

 _Or do you?_ Raoul thought to himself. _Or will you still be singing his melodies in times of loneliness? Or perhaps… deeply regret this later on?_

"Christine…" The Phantom pleaded with Christine, the watery-blue eyes brimming with tears. "Christine. Christine… show..."

"Very well then," the officer shrugged. "Come on Juan, let's get this bastard a date with Madame Guillotine." His fellow coworker, who was holding the other chain to the monster, nodded mutely in agreement, and they both dragged the feebly-resisting Phantom to the guillotine.

The monster's blue eyes met Raoul's as its head was inserted into the slot; blue eyes filled with hate, disgust, envy, and fear.

Christine turned away, her face largely expressionless save for a single tear that noiselessly dripped from her eyelid.

Raoul blinked. Just once.

 _Crraassshhh._

And then he was staring straight at the bloody blade of Madame Guillotine.


	4. Part IV

**Part IV**

"You seem very interested in the Phantom, Philippe." Raoul watched his son fumble through the pages of a history book. "I don't think he'll be in those, though. Those have been published long before he was born."

"Huh?" Philippe looked up at his father. "When was he born?"

"Eighteen twenty-nine. You know, Philippe…" He turned to face his son, but his son's golden eyes were too busy scanning the index page for any references of the Phantom. "Philippe, why are you interested in this monster?"

"I don't know," Philippe responded absentmindedly. "I did not mind that face at all. He must have had such a sad life to resort to something like that."

"Are…are you telling me that you have compassion to… him? The monster?" Raoul sputtered out. He could not believe his ears. His own son, not afraid of who once was the most feared man in all of Paris? _This is going to be interesting..._

Philippe looked up at his father. "I suppose… Yes, yes I do actually. His face was not that bad. Granted, it wasn't very pretty, but anyone could get used to it after a while. He must have been through so much… I wonder what people did to him when he was much younger?"

"Shunned by everyone he met? Locked in a cage and beaten regularly for all to see? Bear the scars for being born that way?..."

Philippe's eyes widened as his father continued on with all of the Phantom's many punishments. "Papa… how do you know all this?"

"...he was forced into the servitude of the Shah of Persia, he was forced to be an assassin, forced to do all sorts of evil deeds by the shah's youngest daughter? Escaped such agony by…"

"Papa…?" Philippe tugged at his father's hand nervously. "Papa, are you alright?"

"... Huh? Oh, what?" He looked down and met his son's eyes. His eyes reflected Raoul's face perfectly. "What is the matter, Philippe?"

"Papa, how do you know so much about the Phantom?"

"I suppose there is just so much information I have withheld from anyone for so long," Raoul admitted, and he sat down next to his son. "Well, you see Philippe, I had a nice, long conversation with the Phantom right before I defeated him. It was quite a strange conversation indeed, more of a one-way type though. I had walked right into his trap, along with the Persian who was my guide through his underground domain. It was so quick. He quickly had a lasso around the neck of the Persian, and I heard a distinctive snap as the Persian fell into the murky waters, clearly dead. I suppose he had forgotten to keep his hand at the level of his eyes. That's what he told me, for the Phantom always used his punjab lasso as his preferred weapon for assassination. However, because the Persian had reminded me to keep my hand at the level of my eyes, I was able to remain alive- just barely- alive when he threw the lasso around my neck. See here?" Raoul brandished out his left hand out of the glove he always wore; the hand bore a distinctive burn mark, along with other faded scars. "That was how tight the lasso was, enough to burn my flesh."

Philippe could not help but notice the other scars that complimented the mark. "Papa, how did you get the other scars? It seems like you suffered more than just that."

Raoul chuckled. "Of course, he wasn't a madman for nothing. I endured hours of whipping, intentional knife cuts, everything he could inflict upon me. All while he was crying his heart out, how even after all that he would still forever be uglier than me."

"Wow Papa. You endured all that for Mama? I'm amazed."

"I've always been capable of anything," Raoul admitted. They sat in silence for a while.

"Why was he crying?"

"I would do anything for your mother. And he did too. He loved your mother in his own twisted way. To that, I have no reasonable answer to give you."

"But Papa, you still haven't told me how you outwitted the Phantom. How?"

Raoul let out a large sigh. "It wasn't easy. The Phantom himself had the stamina and endurance of a bull; I don't know when he finally stopped. When I came through, I realized that his whip lashes and knife cuts had significantly loosened lasso around my neck. He seemed to have given up on attacking me; he was over in the far corner crying. I took my chances and managed to pry myself free from the lasso. And the rest was history, I just slammed the hilt of my sword, which he had carelessly discarded into the waters after disarming me, against his skull. He collapsed-"

"Raoul? Philippe? Where are you?" Christine's muffled voice behind the door interrupted father and son's conversation.

"In the library, my dear," Raoul called back. "What is the matter?"

The door crashed open. Christine's face was parchment white, and in her hand was a glass scorpion. The same scorpion she was presented with nearly fifteen years ago.

"Raoul…?"


	5. Part V

**Part V**

"Raoul, what is this?" Christine demanded as he quickly tucked his hand back into the glove. "Where did you get this from?"

Raoul looked at the glass scorpion, his face emotionless. "That is a glass figurine of a scorpion, Christine," he answered quietly. "I found it in the Phantom's lair after we escaped. I had gone back there to escort the gendarmerie to capture him. The figurine was just so intriguing to me, more so than the grasshopper beside it."

Philippe looked at the scorpion, still in his mother's hand, with great interest. "That is a lovely figurine, Papa. I have never seen something with that much precision before. Can I see it, Mama?"

Gradually, the color returned to Christine's face, but her look of sheer terror remained. "Raoul," she said unsteadily as she handed the delicate scorpion to Philippe, "you do know the significance of this piece of glass, do you not?"

"Leave, Philippe. Your mother and I need a talk." Philippe nodded and hurriedly paced out of the library.

Raoul turned back to Christine after closing the door, face once again unmoving. "I hardly know what you are talking about. Unless you mean to say that your Erik made you choose between a scorpion and the grasshopper figurine to decorate your wardrobe. Worry not, Christine. The grasshopper has hopped away. It hopped jolly high away, and all that remained was the scorpion, alone for eternity." He looked at her carefully with his blue eyes. "I assume that is how it went, correct?"

Christine's face paled once more. "How did you…" She pointed a shaky finger at Raoul. "How did you-"

"Do what, my dear?" Raoul's voice gradually rose in volume. "Use the exact words of the Phantom of the Opera? From your Erik?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, yes, yes… it's as it said..." She turned away. "He haunts me still, even though he is dead."

"Really?" Once again, Raoul showed little emotion. "How so?"

"I hear soft melodies at night. Gentle hums that seem to come from the very walls. His presence… it is everywhere. But it can't be true!" She writhed her hands in despair. "He is dead! I saw him die…! And yet…"

"He is still there, inside your mind."

She turned to face Raoul, eyes widened but filled with tears.

"Yes. Yes he is."

They stood apart, still for what seemed to be eternity. Christine dared not to let her eyes stray from Raoul, much less even come close to him. Everything was happening so quickly, too fast for her mind to process correctly. But one conclusion still remained...

"You… you are him, aren't you? Erik?"

* * *

Final part coming soon.


	6. Finale

**Finale**

 _Christine… my heart._

 _She was so beautiful, so fragile, and mine._

 _And then it all crumbled that day._

"Is something the matter, Philippe?"

Philippe looked up from the little notebook. His lovely wife Angelica was placing a tray of tea and biscuits before him, and her brown eyes were filled with concern.

"Thank you, Angelica. It's nothing really," he sighed as his wife sat down next to him. Her bulging belly nudged against his, and he could feel a gentle kick against his rib. "I just can never understand why my father would go such lengths to be with my mother…"

xxxx

" _No. No. No, no, no." Christine's voice began as a soft whimper, getting louder and louder with each denial. " How did I not notice? How did I not notice? How did I not notice?" his mother had let out a hysterical crackle, one that Philippe-even though he was on the other side of the door- had never heard before, and hoped he would never have to hear again. "You are not Raoul de Chagny! You are him! You are him! You are him!" He could hear sounds of frustrated pounding. "Where is he? Where is Raoul? You know, you know! Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?!"_

 _Philippe never saw his mother again after that. His father prepared for her a concoction to ease her nerves, but she never fully recovered. From that point on, she could not even look at her own son without bursting into tears. She died lonely and alone on her bed less than six months afterward. According to the doctors who conducted the autopsy, it was due to heart failure._

 _His father never got over the loss of her either. He gradually turned to drinking, and whether it was a side effect or not, but his face began to deteriorate as well. No less than a month after her death, and he looked as gaunt as the Phantom of the Opera himself._

 _He still tried to spend as much time with Philippe as much as possible, but Philippe always found his father smiling sadly at him every single time. And Philippe, knowing that his father was not who he claimed to be based on his mother's reaction, was always on guard for the worst._

 _He also finally began to realize that in the entire de Chagny mansion, there was not a single portrait of a de Chagny with golden eyes or curly hair. Even more curious, he had never met any of his supposed grandparents, even though the dates told him they would have only been in their early 60s in the late 1880s._

" _You know," Raoul mused one day, while running his gloved hand through Philippe's curly hair-Christine's trait-, "you are a dead giveaway that you are the child of your mother and I. Your hair, your freckles, your intellect, your eyes…"_

" _Get your hand off of me," Philippe harshly demanded with an unusual cold voice, swatting away the hand. "Leave me alone, you imposter."_

 _Reluctantly, Raoul retracted his hand and eyed his golden child sadly. He got up and returned to his study for another swig of wine. Following that, Philippe became more determined than ever to expose his father's true identity. And judging from his mother's reaction at the time, he needn't try too hard._

 _According to his mother's close friend, Meg Giry-Trouville, the Phantom was an intimidating figure, with a height comparable to Raoul's. This, of course, was all based on what Christine had confided to her so long ago. But what Mde. Trouville did recall distinctly from her own memory, however, was a pair of golden eyes in the darkness that shone before some mischief around the opera house occurred. However, she was but a ballet dancer, and no one ever believed in what she said._

" _Now that I think about it, you look somewhat like the Phantom," she remarked on the street one day, when Philippe was old enough to finally set foot alone into the world. "With your golden eyes and tall physique."_

 _That was enough for Philippe to finally confront his father, who was on his deathbed by that time._

" _Father."_

" _Phi… Philippe?" the old man coughed violently, releasing a splatter of blood onto his white dress shirt. "Is… is that really you?"_

" _Yes." Philippe's voice betrayed no warm feeling. This man was not to be trusted, after all._

" _My… my golden child. My redemption…" He raised his bloodied arm toward his child, who was still standing at the doorway. Philippe had not taken a single step into the room._

" _Cut the act, old man."_

" _Bu-" more violent coughs ensued. "But you are my son, Philippe." Another cough. "I do not lie when I say that." He rolled his head to one side of the pillow., his voice hoarse but still conveying strong emotion. "You will not believe me now. Maybe I have gone past redemption."_

" _You really are the Phantom of the Opera, aren't you?" he said, as he finally strolled into the room and sat down on a chair next to the frail man's bed._

 _Raoul smiled weakly. "What? Me? Preposterous…" he pointed at the journal beside his bedside. "This should answer all of your questions, my son."_

 _Philippe took the journal, noting that it was black with a golden emblem of a rose stamped in front. Looking back at the man who was his father, he muttered, "thank you, father."_

 _Raoul lifted his skeleton-like hand shakily, reaching out to touch Philippe's cheek one last time. Despite his long hands, he failed to reach his target. And Philippe did not respond._

" _My son," he breathed, his eyes meeting Philippe's. Philippe noted that the eyes that reflected back at him were his very own golden ones. The old man's breath was getting more and more shallow. "My son, my saviour…"_

 _Philippe finally moved his head closer to the bed, allowing the man to finally touch him. The man's eyes were steadily closing._

" _Erik's proof… My son… farewell."_

 _Raoul de Chagny was dead._

xxxx

Yet Philippe would not touch the journal for nearly a five years. With his father dead and buried without an autopsy-per his father's request- he instead spent his time trying to court Angelica. In 1910, at age 25, he finally succeeded, and happily married her the same year.

Now, he was expecting his first child. A son, that was what his father predicted long ago. Angelica was due to give birth anytime this week, and he finally decided that now was the time to delve into the past once more. The five years to the day his father died.

There was just one entry.

xxxx

 _Philippe, remember when I told you that I would do anything for your mother?_

 _I captured Raoul de Chagny that fateful night, far long ago. He was so young, so inexperienced. I felt almost sorry for him, but I had to. If I was to win your mother, he was to be the key to my victory._

 _A cover. That was what I needed. Flesh to cover all that she thinks is ugly. His face was so smooth, so flawless. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. A knife. That was all I needed to distort it permanently. Flesh to actually mold into a synthetic, rubbery mask of my creation to cover what I lack. It took many months, but I finally perfected it that night. Attached by thin threads, she would hardly notice. As long as I carefully maintained the mask using oils, the mask would not disintegrate. Locks of blonde hair from his head to form a wig, which concealed most of the threads of my mask, as well as most of ._

 _His teeth were also so perfect. Thankfully, I didn't have to take them for myself. A nice set of false teeth, using his teeth as the ideal design and mold, worked just fine. But unfortunately, the poor fop had to lose his most of his. He squirmed as I cut chunks of his teeth away, so he looked poor and untrustworthy. And also his voice. A concotion from Persia served to permanently damage his vocal cords, making him unrecognizable._

 _He whimpered so pathetically in chains, moaning for Christine. But she will not hear his voice, his calls. The food that I had left your mother was laced with a sleeping draught from India; she fell into a deep sleep, from which nothing can awaken her until the draught's effect fades._

 _His eyes, a most curious baby blue. Mine, a glowing gold. Two strikingly different colors, but glass lens did the trick. I had obtained some design sketches from Adolf Fick, a talented Swiss man, and personally made my own custom pair, tinted to the exact same shade as his. These lens were clearly one step ahead of its time, for they are perfect. Excruciatingly painful, yes, but the result is what counts. Your mother did not know._

 _The poor fool, he was so predictable. He really thought I was spying on him all this time. How unfortunate that his hunches were right; he certainly was not a good sharpshooter though. What tricks a couple of drops of red ink can play on his cocky young mind! Little did he know that I watched his every move, studying his very action, starting to mimic his voice…_

 _It was because of this that I could fully replace him. He, being a noblesman, needed not to flaunt his skin before the public. His custom-made gloves served to hide my hands excellently. And yet, because no one had ever seen me in my full glory, it became possible for the real Raoul de Chagny to become the face of the Phantom. Not even Christine Daae, for I had taken her captive fully masked! For Raoul the Chagny, it is his face on display in the museum. A face I maimed so that I may walk away scot-free._

 _Dispatching the rest of his family was not hard. His brother Philippe was an unnecessary death, for he had fallen into one of my traps while I was busy luring the Daroga and Raoul into the heated chamber. His parents, your supposed grandparents? It also did not take long for me to spike their nightly medication with chloral hydrate and lock them within their own room. The police officially wrote it down as overdosage, and I was left alone with just your mother._

 _Your mother never knew, couldn't have known! She was too happy really, to be rid of your 'grandparents', for they had never treated her with respect in any way. Of course, she was the primary suspect prior to the final reports, but I made sure to point out that the keys to the room were, funnily enough, in their room and not Christine's. The locks required keys on both ends to open; thus, it surely must've been impossible for her to have murdered them!_

 _Christine, Christine. She was so naive, so ignorant. She had eyes only for the glass lens I wore, and that was how she recognized me. She had never seen me undressed; the night we conceived you was pitch black. She did not know that she had eternally bound herself to me._

 _The events leading up to your birth were not happy. They were rather the darkest times when your mother and I were together. I? I feared that you would be born and bear my ugly sin. I tried to convince your mother to abort you, saying that it might be too soon for her to conceive a child. She steadfastedly refused, and may have even had a slight hint for who I was. I disappeared for days without end wallowing in despair, until I finally decided that you would be born; however, had you turned out as ugly as I was, I would end your life so you would not suffer mine, and let your mother believe you died prematurely. But fortunately, that was not the case. You were, and still are, a golden child, one your mother and I always dreamt of having. When I held you in my arms for the first time, it was then that I resolved to be a father that you would be able to look up to without any shame._

 _Life turned for the better. I realized that the de Chagny estate was quickly losing value even before my, shall we say 'intrusion'. They were not very good employers, they certainly had no clue in terms of investing money or pleasing the class below them. Christine and I saw this every day, as we strolled through the gardens of the mansion and paid monthly visits to our investments. We were both all too heavily reminded of our poor pasts. I particularly was much shaken up, and it was on that first day of normalcy that I vowed that I would do everything I could to help Paris thrive. And thrive, Paris did._

 _And Philippe, you know the rest. You, your mother, and the rest of society lived unaware that I remained alive. I, the supposed Phantom of the Opera! Even now, that name has become bitter to my mouth. That day, your mother finally realized who I was. And now, it is all but a distant past._

 _Philippe, I know that you may want to forget me after reading this, but I beg you to consider all that I have been through. Torture, abuse, deprival of freedom to even walk out in the sun, living in constant fear. Fear of being caught, fear of being exploited. It is a very hard picture for me to try and paint for you, for I am sure that future society would certainly do something against all that I had suffered in my youth._

 _Philippe, my son. Don't forgive me for what I've done, if that is what you wish. But still, it is because of you that I changed for the better._

 _Your loving father,_

 _Erik._

xxxx

"Philippe? What would you name our child when he or she is born?"

"Hmm?" he turned around, wiping a tear away from his eye.

"Oh Philippe." his wife patted his shoulder soothingly. "I know that the journal must have been-"

"Oh no. My father… I never knew. But this gives me peace. It probably gave him peace too, the day he died." He looked at a vase of roses by the windowsill, frozen by the winter chill and instead illuminated by the moonlit sky.

"Yes, I think so too."

The pair watched the vase of roses until the moonlight finally vanished behind a storm of clouds.

"You know," Philippe turned to face his wife. "I was thinking Erik Louis."


	7. Alternate Ending

**Alternate Ending**

 _She knows._

 _She knew too much._

 _Sweet, sweet Christine. Why could you not look the other way?_

Frantically, Raoul de Chagny slammed the trunk lid shut, nervously glancing over his shoulder every so often. No, he must do his deed right now. Little Philippe must never know.

 _Ack, no! A spot._ He rubbed a smudge mark upon the leather surface. _Look at me. Rubbing away a spot._ He grimaced despite his current condition. _What will Philippe and the household members think of me?_

"Papa?"

The door to his study creaked open, causing Raoul to jump in surprise. He turned around, pulling out a lasso from amid his breast pocket, preparing to throw it and strangle the intruder.

And then he mentally stabbed himself for thinking of doing just that.

Philippe's golden eyes were as round as saucers, as he gazed upon the scarlet-red lasso in his father's hands. Raoul could see his son slowly shake in fear. His legs, his spindly and totally inherited from him, seemed almost ready to buckle.

"Pa… pa..? Wha… where is Mam…" His eyes would not leave the lasso.

"Ah- well- Philip-" Raoul stumbled upon his words like a toddler, dropping the lasso in the process. "Well- you see- your mother- I-"

The little boy slowly stumbled forward, the heavy door to Raoul's study silently clicking shut behind him. "Mama… where is Mama?"

"I- I… I had her sent to an asylum," Raoul finally choked out, his gloved hands shaking as he bent down to get his lasso. "She- she is much too- ill- now to talk- something- something happened- doctors- yes, the doctors- said she- won't- recover." He instinctively rubbed his forehead with his gloved hand, even though no perspiration was present.

"But… but papa...why?" His little hands pointed to the little lasso. "Why do you have… that? And why is it covered in…"

Before he could finish his sentence, his neck snapped, and Philippe de Chagny collapsed onto the floor in a heap.

Raoul de Chagny let out a sigh of relief as he undid his lasso around the boy's neck.

 _Little Philippe. You were too smart for your own good._

 _Now no one will know about the Phantom and his connection with… Philippe?!_

Raoul looked at the body again, coming to the dreadful realization with what he had done.

"Philippe?" His voice croaked, his very body trembling in realization. "Philippe! Philippe!" He abandoned the lasso and dove to his son's body, embracing and cradling it as if it were a newborn baby. "Philippe… Philippe…" he sobbed, tears falling onto the dull, dead, golden eyes of the boy. "Why, Philippe? Why must you be so curious about everything!"

Several hours later, the Surete arrived at the de Chagny mansion based on an emergency call from the maid. They found all the staff members, sans the maid, murdered in their beds, and the master and his family were nowhere to be found. A bloody lasso, soaked with the blood of all of the deceased, was found in the room of the maid. A shattered window hidden by a curtain in the master's room was all that remained as evidence to the assassin.

Far away, in the cellars of the Opera Garnier, Raoul de Chagny opened his trunk for the final time, removing its contents and placing them in a cozy coffin belonging to the Phantom of the Opera.

 _At last,_ he thought, as he climbed into the coffin, _I will be at rest with my family and leave this world behind._

He closed the coffin lid shut.


End file.
